


In safe hands

by stripteas



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Ass Play, Ass to Mouth, Bottom Sylvain Jose Gautier, Crimson Flower Route, Dark Magic, Day 2: magic, Dirty Talk, Dom Hubert von Vestra, Dom/sub Undertones, I'm late rip me, Invisible hands, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Light Verbal Humiliation Play, M/M, Magic, Neck Kissing, Nipple Play, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Restraints, Rough Kissing, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Spoilers for Seteth's true identity, Sub Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvbert Weekend 2020, little to no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26353747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripteas/pseuds/stripteas
Summary: For Sylvbert weekend 2020Day 2: MagicSylvain volunteers for helping Hubert figure out an ancient spell from one of Seteth's forbidden book pile, one that allows you to conjure phantom hands at your orders. After spending more time together, Hubert realises Sylvain and him are not so different after all.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66
Collections: Sylvbert Weekend 2020





	In safe hands

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! Late for Sylvbert weekend, but hopefully you guys will still enjoy it!  
> Mind the tags, please!

Hubert despises asking favours.

Nothing’s for free. Ever. Favours are but traps, unwritten contracts that bind you to someday, somehow pay back for what you owe and then some more. They’re unconventional and involve having to trust another person without knowing whether they’ll even complete their task, or if their performance will be any good.

They are too much of a risk, Hubert thinks. It’s safer to pay someone more skilled to do the deed, or even threaten them into it. Better yet, he tries his very best to handle as much as he could alone, even going to such lengths as to use himself as a test subject for new spells and concoctions. It’s a much cleaner alternative to testing on prisoners, who would have to be disposed of after in order to avoid spreading the word on the Empire’s current tactics.

With this newest invention, though, Hubert can’t resolve to a one-man laboratory to figure out every trick to the spell, which is why he’s in the Gautier heir’s room now, watching him writhe on the bed.

He had found the spell in a book among the myriads of those Seteth – or should he say,  _ Chichol  _ – had forbidden and kept away from the library. It took Hubert a whole month to make sense of the scribbles and intricate sigils hidden within the pages. His guess was that the spell was an attempt to replicate telekinesis, something considered impossible so far by most magical experts, an unachievable dream comparable to the sage’s stone that grants immortality. Hubert could picture how easy it would be to not get his hands dirty during a rather gruesome torture session, how to instill fear in his captive when there’s no way of guessing where his blows might strike next; how easy would it be to once and for all exterminate Those Who Slither in the Dark with a trained army of mages trained to master the spell. The result of such knowledge making its way to inexperienced or malign hands could be disastrous, so he would have to study it in depth before allowing anyone else to.

Finding someone to test with was hard. It took Hubert merely a week to get detailed descriptions of every mage in their forces, but he couldn’t find anyone worth his trust. Where one was expendable, their strength wasn’t to Hubert’s standard; where one was skilled, Hubert wasn’t quite sure about where their loyalty lied. He was ready to give up when the answer presented itself right across the table in the dining hall.

“Hubie! What brings you here? I thought your kind only fed off virgin blood.”

Hubert had been so invested in looking for mages that he had completely overlooked the fact that not all magic users are classified as mages. Sylvain was incredibly skilled in reason magic, but was currently part of the cavalry, which made him slip away from Hubert’s gaze. It was most likely that Sylvain would soon join the Dark Knight cavalry, given his dexterity in both lance wielding and casting.

“There are hardly any virgins when you are stationed here. I have no choice to adapt to your human ways,” he’d looked up from his notes as Sylvain let out a loud  _ Ha! _ “On the topic of human ways, I would appreciate it if we discussed something in private after dinner. My quarters.”

In the first week of practice Hubert is ready to give up.

The amount of energy every session takes out of him is overwhelming, leaving him with trembling hands for the rest of the night. He’s barely able to stand up and accompany Sylvain to the door after a session and their progress is close to zero.

After a particularly rough session, Sylvain refuses to leave.

“You can’t go on like this. We barely even started and you’re already facing a burnout. Either you go to Lin this instant or you can say goodbye to your lab rat.”

And so he stumbles with the help of Sylvain to Linhardt’s door. It’s the middle of the night still, but knowing the healer, that probably doesn’t make a difference.

So it becomes a tradition of theirs: they have dinner, practice in Hubert’s room, and by the end of the session Linhardt is waiting in front of Hubert’s quarters, ready to help as much as he can with recovering from the strain.

“Do you keep your gloves on when practicing?” Linhardt broke the usual pensive silence between them.

“Of course. There are thousands of soldiers stationed here. The monastery must be filthy, and I’m not one to find others’ grime on my hands pleasing.”

“Has it occurred to you that they might interfere with the magic?” Linhardt looks up from their hands to Hubert’s face, who looks as if he was just told pigs could fly, “I’m serious. It might help you add... tact to your spell.”

Turns out, Linhardt was right.

The way magic pours through Hubert’s fingers feels like the first morning with a clear nose after a cold, clear and fresh, flowing freely. The power with which he grips Sylvain’s hand is strong enough that they are forced to summon Linhardt earlier than usual for a fractured finger. The women at the monastery weren’t pleased when Sylvain spent the whole week running up to them and claiming that “kissing it better” would shorten the recovery time.

The speed of their progress becomes astonishing. The goal is suddenly not to enhance the spell, but to learn to control it, set its boundaries and report any anomalies. In other words, Hubert is now able to light the match and have it last, but the challenge is in not allowing it to burn the house down.

Because of that, they end up moving their practice to Sylvain’s room, which is located at the far end of the corridor, with several rooms between his and the next one in use, ensuring good noise reduction, magic stench isolation and, most importantly, greater distance in case of a possible mishap.

To Hubert’s distaste, this also means that their sessions get suddenly interrupted by Sylvain forcing him to take a biscuit or a meat pie he snuck out of the kitchen earlier that day.

Hubert has never experienced this before with Sylvain, yet he feels a sudden nostalgia as the other man dotes on him. In those little acts such as feeding him and making sure he is taking proper rest, he sees the same care with which Sylvain watched over his friends back in their academy days, before joining the Black Eagles, to the Lions’ disdain. It is the same care with which Hubert takes care of his own comrades.

Despite them getting closer and spending the better part of the night together, Hubert can’t help but feel ever so distant from Sylvain. At night he wears mussed-up hair and a tired smile – possibly the most genuine one Hubert’s ever seen on him – while in the light of day he wears his jester suit, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and an infuriating wink to any girl passing by.

It is perhaps hypocritical to wish for Sylvain to stop his façade, when Hubert himself keeps up his own act with a stern face and a steady voice while in reality caring for the Strike Force and doting on each of them his own way, whether it is by ensuring they don’t wander awake at night, to leaving tiny gifts to their doors when they are sick. Yet he’s deeply offended by Sylvain making distance between them the same way as he does with everyone else. Even now, Hubert understands the reasoning behind Sylvain’s behaviour. He, who knows of Sylvain’s past, of the truth behind Gautier being a “clumsy kid” until his brother left the court; he, who knows how behind their masks lie two kids, pawns to their respective families, broken beyond repair by their very own blood.

Hubert should know better than most why Sylvain won’t let him in, yet he frantically tries to tell him:  _ I’m like you. I know how you feel. Stop pretending. Do it just for me. _

But Sylvain can’t hear him.

One night Hubert snaps.

Once Sylvain locks the door Hubert is on him, all lips and teeth, needy hands seeking purchase, barely giving the redhead time to process before pushing him away. The back of Sylvain’s legs hits the edge of the bed and he’s falling back onto the mattress.

Oh, and what a sight he is! Hubert admires the way Sylvain’s unruly hair crowns his head in a ring of fire, red lips swollen from the rough treatment of Hubert’s teeth, his cheeks dusted pink and his broad chest rising and falling rapidly.

Hubert smiles at the result of merely one brief kiss.

“So we’re doing this today, huh?” and the spell is broken. Sylvain’s look of surprise is replaced with the womaniser smirk once again.

“Stop it.” Hubert grumbles.

“What? Thought you wanted this.”

“No. Stop being an impertinent bastard. Stop hiding yourself.”

Sylvain’s expression falters for the briefest moment before he schools it back into a grin, “You know I can’t.”

“Yes, you  _ can _ !” Hubert’s all but snarling, crawling over him, pressing their lips together another time with anger and frustration seeping through the kiss. Sylvain’s breath, his cheeks, his whole body is hot, like a furnace compared to Hubert’s. Why does it have to be so complicated?

“Make me,” Sylvain gasps as he pulls away, then gives a tentative tug at Hubert’s lower lip, “Help me get there.”

Hubert pulls back enough to look into those warm chestnut eyes, silently pleading. For what exactly, Hubert isn’t sure.

He can improvise, though.

He pushes Sylvain down as he gets off the bed, swiftly turns to the desk on the opposite wall and takes his time to unlatch his overcoat and place it on the back of Sylvain’s chair. Then come his sleeves, which he rolls up to his elbows. Although his eyes are fixed on the work of his hands, he can feel the weight of Sylvain’s gaze on him, the impatient shifting, probably the product of the straining tightness in his trousers. Sylvain’s panting by the time Hubert discards his boots, and is so desperate that he almost moans as those dexterous fingers take care of his own boots, too.

Hubert takes his place back on the bed, kneeling between Sylvain’s legs.

“Hard already?” he tuts and leans forward to run a finger up a thigh, “Does Sylvain Gautier not live up to his reputation? I took you for a man with experience, yet here you are trembling like an untouched maiden.”

Whether it is the words or the way Hubert lightens his touch on his groin that has Sylvain writhing, he doesn’t know, but what he  _ does  _ know was that the last weeks had him get acquainted with the way Sylvain’s body ticked, and now is the perfect moment to use the knowledge to his advantage.

“You just want someone to ruffle your feathers, don’t you? Whore.”

Sylvain only chuckles at the remark as Hubert lets his fingers dance up, up, palming at Sylvain’s chest only briefly before sliding his flattened hand higher, applying minimal pressure to his neck. Sylvain pulls his head back, and Hubert can feel how Sylvain’s throat bobs as he gulps in anticipation. He could have so much fun, but not yet. Instead, he lets his fingers ghost over Sylvain’s lips, who catches the hint and closes his teeth on the tip of Hubert’s glove.

“Good.” Hubert slips his hand out of the glove and repeats the motions with the second one, “In these weeks I have come to trust you, Sylvain. More than I would’ve liked, even.” Hubert lets the gloves drop to the floor and leans forward, one hand beside Sylvain’s head and the other holding the man’s chin up, “I don’t want you to betray that trust now, understood?”

Sylvain nods, then Hubert grips his chin tighter as if to spur him on, “I- I understand.”

“If  _ anything _ makes you uncomfortable, I want you to tell me. I will stop when you order me to.” Hubert tries to see any sliver of doubt in those eyes, but is lost in the specks of bronze in his irises, glistening under the candlelight. One moment and Sylvain’s hands drag him down by the back of the neck into another bruising kiss.

Hubert pushes back with as much force, seizing Sylvain’s lower lip and pulling at it with his teeth, leaving tiny bites on that sharp jaw and lower down, to Sylvain’s neck, where the smell of cologne is the strongest. He breathes in the sweet rosewood mixed with Sylvain’s own warm scent, a hint of sweat too. When he bites at the base of the neck, Sylvain groans.

“So you are a vampire after all. Do I have to remind you I’m not a virgin?”

The snarky comment only makes Hubert bite harder, and Sylvain’s nails dig into his back as he wails and wraps his legs around the other man’s middle. Hubert starts sucking as if really drinking Sylvain’s blood, which only earns more noise from the redhead.

He takes advantage of the situation and slides Sylvain’s loose shirt out of his trousers to palm at the skin underneath, the hard muscles tensing under his touch. He didn’t expect anything less, especially since Sylvain did little to hide his toned shape in their academy days, opting for tighter uniforms and leaving his jacket open.

After tugging Sylvain’s shirt off, Hubert takes in the sight underneath him. War made Sylvain’s form all the more attractive, broadening his shoulders, trimming his waist; the skin of his torso is bronze – tan from the time spent training shirtless – his shoulders sculpted. Hubert’s fingers follow his gaze trailing up to Sylvain’s pectorals, resting upon a pink nipple and teasing the areola ever so briefly before squeezing.

“Carefu— ah!” when Hubert’s mouth ghosts over the other nipple, Sylvain can’t help but put a hand over his mouth to silence himself. He glances down and locks eyes with Hubert, who stares into his soul, his eyes narrowing in challenge before Sylvain’s wrists are tugged away, above his head. He looks up but sees nothing but his hands, kept in place by an invisible force. Hubert’s spell.

“Who said you could cover your mouth?” Hubert takes a pause from sucking and instead teases both of Sylvain’s nipples with his hands. Sylvain’s moan resonates straight to Hubert’s groin, “That’s it. Let it all out.”

Hubert can feel how the cavalier’s legs tug him closer still. He has to close his eyes for a second and steady his breath as Sylvain rubs against him, the bliss only a taste of what is coming next. He summons a pair of hands to replace his own at Sylvain’s chest as he pulls back and fumbles with Sylvain’s fly.

Sylvain’s lower half is as mouthwatering as the rest of him. Strong calves, thick thighs from the hours spent on horseback and, between those legs that Hubert so wants to sink his teeth into, Sylvain’s member, thick and heavy, already spreading wetness onto Sylvain’s belly.

Hubert runs his hands along Sylvain’s legs, squeezing at the supple flesh, spreading them to take a better look at Sylvain’s buttocks.

“You’re beautiful.” it’s merely a whisper, yet judging by the way Sylvain throbs between his legs, he must have heard it. “Stunning.”

“Hubert,” Sylvain is all flushed down to his chest, almost red as his hair. Tears are welling up in his unfocused eyes. It’s him, the real Sylvain, raw and trembling and honest, “please…”

“Tell me, dear. What is it that you want?” he runs a light finger on the underside of Sylvain’s cock, earning another groan. It was a luck that nobody slept any nearer, or they would have already been interrupted.

“Your mouth!” Sylvain gasps for air as if he was drowning, “Please, fuck me with it. Fuck my ass with your clever tongue!”

Hubert can’t help but cackle at that, “As you wish.”

Another pair of hands comes up to keep Sylvain’s legs spread and back curved so that Hubert has easier access. He’s never managed to hold that many hands steady before, and he can feel the toll it takes on him, the pressure in his chest and fire behind his eyes, but he’s determined to last. He bends down to kiss Sylvain, chaste and soft, yet the man underneath him is desperate, sucking harder, devouring Hubert like a starved man. He whines as Hubert pulls away and presses another kiss to Sylvain’s neck, his chest, shuffling back so that he can kiss the back of Sylvain’s legs, test the waters and nibble at the skin that connects the inner thigh to the buttock.

Sylvain tries to press against Hubert but is completely helpless, immovable. Hubert smiles against his body and noses at Sylvain’s balls before pressing one last kiss to the skin of his puckered hole. Sylvain squirms.

“S— stop teasing!” 

And Hubert does. He spreads the ass with a hand and attacks Sylvain with his tongue, pressing in, penetrating the tight hole.

Sylvain screams.

He shuffles and trembles as much as the invisible restraints allow him, pants,  _ wheezes  _ as Hubert uses his free hand to slowly stroke him. He wants to hear more, to have Sylvain cry out until his voice turns hoarse and he’s rendered incapable of leading his battalion the next day. He wants to be the one to end him and bring him back up, his pillar, his Sun.

He presses deeper, lapping at Sylvain’s insides as he strokes faster and faster. He sucks at the flesh and relishes in every sweet moment that Sylvain’s hole tightens.

“I’m…  _ Ah, I’m close _ ,” Sylvain can barely get the words out in between moans. His voice is meek, vulnerable, “I need you!”

Hubert gives one last lick as deep as he can manage before coming up with his jaw slack and aching. He responds to Sylvain’s protests by replacing his tongue with two fingers and pushes at the places that have Sylvain howling, urging on harder and faster in time with his strokes. He locks eyes with Sylvain and can’t help but smile at how beautiful he looks, even – if not especially – with tears streaming down his face and hair sticking to his forehead.

Sylvain pulls his head forward and Hubert gets the message, coming closer and pressing a kiss to Sylvain’s cheek before whispering against his lips: “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”

And with that, Sylvain comes.

It’s as if time stops. Sylvain holds his breath and clenches around Hubert’s fingers, petrified for a few seconds before ropes of white spurt onto his stomach and chest, staining everything between the two men. With the last of his forces Sylvain kisses Hubert once more, a strained whine leaving his mouth as the last wave of orgasm hits him.

As soon as it’s over, the aftermath of the spell hits Hubert as if the ceiling crashed on him. The will to surrender to it is strong, but he stays awake enough to assist Sylvain, who’s lying slack and spent. He can barely even slide his hand – now free – to stroke Hubert’s cheek, a tired smile on both of their faces.

It all happens in a haze. Hubert barely remembers even getting up. He’s quite sure he used his own shirt as a makeshift cloth to wipe the spent off Sylvain, and perhaps he washed both of their hands and faces with the basin in the room. Wherever his clothes are gone is a problem for his future self. All he can perceive now are the bed, the sheet, and Sylvain’s warm body clinging to his side.

Messy locks tickle Hubert’s neck as Sylvain shuffles closer and leans his head against his lover. It’s dark, but Hubert can hear the smile in Sylvain’s sigh.

“Thank you.” Sylvain kisses Hubert’s jaw, “Sorry I did nothing.”

“Dear, you have done so much for me.” Hubert turns to him, even though he can’t make out his face, “You showed yourself to me. That’s all I need.”

Sylvain squeezed his side tighter.

“Unless you’re desperate to give me payback tomorrow, of course.”

Sylvain chuckles at that, and it doesn’t take long for Hubert to join him, “ _ Of course. _ ”

Then it’s silence, only the sound of their breathing lulling them to sleep.

Miraculously, Hubert slept until morning.

He wonders if he’s dead, and there is a heaven after all, for when his eyes open Sylvain is there, smiling at him with a tired smile, mussed up hair and eyes that crinkle up the sweet way they do only when he  _ really _ smiles.

“Morning,” Sylvain croaks.

Hubert’s chest flutters and he can’t help it when he cups Sylvain’s cheeks and kisses the pretty smile off his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> The biggest thank you to [Lissa](https://twitter.com/pillver?s=20), who had the patience and horny endurance to beta this fic for me ;D <3  
> Smash that kudos button like you'd smash Dat Ass if you liked my fic. Hell, leave a comment too while you're at it!  
> In case you feel like sharing this on Twitter, the promo post is [here](https://twitter.com/stripteas13/status/1303199392275537920?s=20)!


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